


Princess

by skyeward



Series: Forever [4]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Drunken Confessions, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 20:43:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyeward/pseuds/skyeward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: “Write me a story about a drunken Miranda asking to be treated like a princess!” Anything you say, kitten!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Princess

It was a stupid fight. Just fucking pointless. I don’t even remember what started it, to be honest, just that she ended it when she threw a damn chair at my head and then slammed the door-open button so hard I think she broke the thing. It still hasn’t closed.

She might as well have chained my ass to the apartment at that point - I sure as hell wasn’t gonna go after her, but I didn’t wanna let her come back to an empty place. Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I’m turning into a pussy, I know.

So I bummed around the apartment for a couple hours, eating junk food because there were no health freak busybody bitches around to harass me about it, then got a shot of responsibility right in the ass (goddammit Shepard) and now I'm forcing myself to work on the curriculum for the upcoming semester.

This is supposed to be my damn vacation, a solid month of good food, no work, cushy Citadel living, and some spectacular fucking with the finest piece of ass in the galaxy whose last name isn’t ‘Shepard’. Hey, everybody's favourite hero might be too goody-two-shoes to get with, but that doesn't mean I haven't looked.

Anyway, that ‘fine piece of ass’ had to go and fuck up a good thing less than a week in, bitching and nagging about some damn thing or another, I still can’t remember what. Well, whatever. She knew what she was getting into when we got 'together', she can get the hell over it on her own. It’s not hurting _my_  feelings.

Screw this bullshit curriculum garbage! The datapad makes a satisfyingly loud noise when it thumps against the wall, and I lean back into the couch. I’m not fucking moping, and if you suggest it I’ll break you into so many pieces they’ll never find even half of your corpse. I’m just pissed off - half my inbox is more stupid suggestions from Alliance brass about what 'creative' uses my students could be put to. I’ve been teaching these little idiots for years, I think I know what they can and should be doing. A 'human tractor beam' is not it.

And where the  _fuck_ is Miranda?

\- - - - - - - - - -

I wake up sore all over, with a crick in my neck and the light from the hall half-blinding me in the darkness of the apartment. I don’t even know when I fell asleep, but apparently it’s the middle of the night now and Miranda is still nowhere to be found. Telling myself that she's fine, that there's no way the Illusive Man found her after only one week on the Citadel, I flip on the lights and smack the door panel a couple times - the closest I come to fixing things. It doesn’t do anything, so clearly it’s fucked. Whatever.

Just as I turn to go crash - hell yeah I’m taking the bed, if she doesn’t want me there she can just  _try_ and kick me out - I hear something down the hall.

“Come on, right foot…good job. Left foot…you can do it. Almost there…” I wouldn’t lay creds on it, but that sounds like Kasumi, of all people. 

“And then she said…” That’s Miranda’s voice trailing off into mumbles, and she’s clearly drunk off her ass - she never slurs her words on less than four drinks, and even Ms. Lightweight herself can usually walk on her own up till drink number six or seven. “Nobody tells me to _get over it!_  I’m tired.”

Then they’re in the doorway, where I’m still standing like a giant moron.

“Oh good,” Kasumi sighs with relief, “You’re up. Can you take her please? She’s not what I’d call dainty, and I’ve been practically carrying her since we left Purgatory.”

Before I can open my mouth to tell her to go fuck herself, Miranda starts yelling, still slurring her words and now shaking one finger at me like a damn school teacher. Drunk Miranda is a whole different person sometimes.

“There you are! You…you…” I guess she ran out of words or something, cause next thing I know she’s pushing off of Kasumi and throwing herself on me. Kasumi wasn’t kidding, this bitch is heavy when she’s just dead weight.

With a quick salute that makes me want to hit her a  _lot_ , Kasumi disappears back the way she came. Dammit, she could’ve helped me. Now I’ve gotta haul Miranda’s drunk ass all the way to the bed.

Haha, actually fuck that. She can sleep off her booze on the couch, thanks. _That’s_ only a few steps away, so I can toss her down pretty quick and get on my own way to a quiet night’s sleep in her big plush bed.

“Jack,” Miranda calls plaintively from the couch, and I stop with a groan. No, I’m not gonna get stuck taking care of some drunk chick. I’m just not. I start walking again.

“Jack,” she says again, and there’s a note of pleading in her voice that I’m helpless to deny. God _dammit_.

“What the fuck do you  _want,_ bitch? I’m trying to go to bed!”

“Kiss me goodnight?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking  _fuck_. I turn back.

“I swear if you puke on me, I will murder the shit out of you.”

But she doesn’t puke, just grabs the front of my t-shirt and pulls me down for a sloppy kiss that tastes like those pussy fruity cocktails she likes so much.

“Okay, good fucking night. Now let me go.”

She won’t let go of my shirt now, and some of the neighbors are skeevy enough that I’m not really feeling the idea of walking around naked in front of the open door. She just stares blankly at me for a second.

“Jack,” she starts again, and at least she doesn’t sound _quite_ so drunk anymore, “Treat me like a princess.”

What. The. _Fuck._

I can’t help but get flustered, because who asks for something like that? It doesn’t even make any damn sense. I pull on her hands, trying to get her to let go. Screw the open door, I’m gonna pull out of the shirt in a second so I can finally go to bed.

“Bitch, you’re drunk. Just quit it, let me go, and sleep it off.”

“No,” she snaps back with equal force, pulling harder on my shirt until I’m about to fall over on top of her. “I’m tired of you treating me like a convenient lay and a place to sleep! Treat me like a princess.  _Now,_ Jack!”

I don’t even know where she’s going with this.

“You’ve fucking lost it. What the hell does that even mean?”

“Why don’t you start with kissing me like you actually want to, instead of like it’s just one more thing you have to do before I’ll let you fuck me? Maybe try calling me something other than ‘bitch’ sometimes too. It’s not that difficult, Jack!”

The booze must be wearing off really fast, because her eyes look clearer every second and her words almost make sense. Well, they make enough sense that I feel like an asshole now, anyway.

“Look, Miranda, I-“

“See? It’s not that hard. Now for the kissing.”

This is something I never wanted to admit, but if she’s as boozed up as I think she is, she won’t remember it in the morning anyway. I guess it can’t hurt anything.

“Look, I’m no good with kissing and shit, okay? Never had to do much of it before.”

“Don’t care.” Her response is immediate. “Just lay down with me and at least try!”

Ugh.

“Fine. Fucking fine. Move over at least, there’s no room.”

“Nope.”

She pulls me down on top of her - and I’m not gonna say it’s uncomfortable laying on all that softness, but it kinda is. Our bodies don’t mesh well, me with all my gangly skinniness and her with all that T&A _,_ but she’s still holding onto my shirt and the only thing I’m gonna accomplish if I try to get up is to fall on the floor.

So I try to do what she wants, I swear I try, but it feels awkward and I’m pretty sure I’m doing it wrong. Apparently she disagrees, because soon she’s pulling back and she’s actually smiling, finally. “See, not so hard after all.”

\- - - - - - - - - -

Turns out there’s a lot involved in treating your usual piece of ass like a princess, actually. Lots of kissing, which I guess feels a little less weird once we’ve been doing it for a while. She makes me undress her without tearing a single piece of clothing, which is harder than it sounds, okay? I’m not a ‘gentle’ person and I never have been, so this whole thing is new to me and I’ve got no damn idea what I’m doing.

Then she wants me to  _carry her_ to the bedroom. What am I, a fucking superhero?

Actually I guess I kinda am - biotics to the rescue. But once we’re in there, we  _still_  don’t get to just screw. No, apparently  _princesses_  get made “sweet, slow love to,” whatever the hell that means.

I feel like an idiot, having a drunk bitch walk me through a whole new kind of sex, but for some reason I can’t just get up and say fuck this mess. I wanna do what she wants me to do, wanna be what she wants me to be. I don’t even know why.

At least, I don’t know why until she finally comes, hugging me to her and burying her face in my neck as she sobs out her orgasm. I’m gonna be a giant makeup stain in the morning, but I’m guessing princesses don’t get shoved away in the middle of the afterglow, so I let her stay. It helps that just then, looking into those usually glacial blue eyes as she spasmed under my hand, I felt even more powerful than I did while fucking the daylights out of her.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not so soft that this is gonna be my new default for screwing my…my whatever she is…but I guess it’s not too terrible once in a while.

“What now, ‘princess’?”

I can’t keep the sarcasm from my voice, but she doesn’t seem to care too much.

“Now you tell me you love me and we cuddle.”

“What the fuck? I don’t-“

“Jack!”

God dammit.

“Look, bitch, I don’t-“

_“Jack.”_

God  _fucking_ dammit. There’s no way I’m gonna…nah, I can do this. Jack-the-psycho-style.

“Fine. I fucking love you, okay? Stupid bitch.”

Nothing changes but the tone of her voice.

“Jack.”

I don’t want to be here, don’t want to be this close, this intense. My thoughts are itching across the inside of my skull again, and I feel like a trapped varren. I wish she wasn’t holding me so tight, I wish I could get up and put some distance between us. I don’t want to say it, don’t want to admit it. She  _knows_ it, isn't that enough?

“Jack, please.”

And now she’s crying. That's just perfect. Dammit, dammit, _dammit_. This is hell. She turns those big wet eyes on me, the mascara already starting to run again, and she looks so damn lost that it reminds me of myself and my own eyes start to prickle. I squeeze them shut and take the leap.

“I love you.”

She sniffs and plants one last kiss on my mouth, lipstick smearing together once again, then snuggles up against me and closes her eyes. I can feel her lashes moving against the skin of my neck.

“I love you too.”


End file.
